Star Wars: Rise again
by Kazakus
Summary: Hearing of Anakin being the chosen one, Darth Sidious chooses to end his life. Obi-Wan blames himself, and chooses to leave Coruscant. Without the chosen one, the galaxy falls into ruins, until one fateful night where Obi-wan sees Anakin again... Eventual Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN STAR WARS**

Anakin Skywalker stood in a long, single-file line in an abandoned maintenance tunnel leading to the Wicko district garbage pit. With an impatient sigh, he hoisted his flimsy and tightly folded race wings by their leather harness and propped the broad rudder on the strap of his flight sandal. Then he leaned the wings against the wall of the tunnel, and, tongue between his lips, applied the small glowing blade of a pocket welder, like a tiny lightsaber, to a crack in the left lateral brace. Repairs finished, he waggled the rotator experimentally. Smooth, though old.

Just the week before, he had bought the wings from a former champion with a broken back. Anakin had worked his wonders in record time, so he could fly now in the very competition where the champion had ended his career.

Anakin enjoyed the wrenching twist and bone-popping jerk of the race wings in flight. He savored the speed and the extreme difficulty as some savor the beauty of the night sky, difficult enough to see on Coruscant, with its eternal planet-spanning city-glow. He craved the competition and even felt a thrill at the nervous stink of the contestants, scum and riffraff all.

But above all, he loved _winning._

The garbage pit race was illegal, of course. The authorities on Coruscant tried to maintain the image of a staid and respectable metropolitan planet, capital of the Republic, center of law and civilization for tens of thousands of stellar systems. The truth was far otherwise, if one knew where to look, and Anakin instinctively knew where to look.

He had, after all, been born and raised on Tatooine.

Though he loved the Jedi training, stuffing himself into such tight philosophical garments was not easy. Anakin had suspected from the very beginning that on a world where a thousand species and races met to palaver, there would be places of great fun.

The tunnel master in charge of the race was a Naplousean, little more than a tangle of stringlike tissues with three legs and a knotted nubbin of glittering wet eyes. "First flight is away," it hissed as it walked in quick, graceful twirls down the narrow, smooth-walled tunnel. The Naplousean spoke Basic, except when it was angry, and then it simply smelled bad. "Wings! Up!" it ordered.

Anakin hefted his wings over one shoulder with a professionally timed series of grunts, one-two-three, slipped his arms through the straps, and cinched the harness he had cut down to fit the frame of a twelve-year-old human boy.

The Naplousean examined each of the contestants with many critical eyes. When it came to Anakin, it slipped a thin, dry ribbon of tissue between his ribs and the straps and tugged with a strength that nearly pulled the boy over.

"Who you?" the tunnel master coughed.

"Anakin Skywalker," the boy said. He never lied, and he never worried about being punished.

"You way bold," the tunnel master observed. "What mother and father say, we bring back dead boy?" "They'll raise another," Anakin answered, hoping to sound tough and capable, but not really caring what opinion the tunnel master held so long as it let him race.

"I know racers," the Naplousean said, its knot of eyes fighting each other for a better view. "You no racer!"

Anakin kept a respectful silence and focused on the circle of murky blue light ahead, growing larger as the line shortened.

"Ha!" the Naplousean barked, though it was impossible for its kind to actually laugh. It twirled back down the line, poking, tugging, and issuing more pronouncements of doom, all the while followed by an adoring little swarm of cam droids.

A small, tight voice spoke behind Anakin. "You've raced here before."

Anakin had been aware of the Noghri in line behind him for some time. There were only a few hundred on all of Coruscant, and they had joined the Republic less than a century before. They were an impressive-looking people: steel-gray-skinned bipeds who were heavily muscled as well as sinewy and possessed great agility which was only enhanced by their faster-than-normal reflexes.

"Twice," Anakin said. "And you?"

"Twice," the Noghri said amiably, then blinked and looked up. Across the Noghri 's narrow face, his nose spread into two fleshy flaps like a split shield, half hiding his wide, lipless mouth. The ornately tattooed nose flaps functioned both as a sensor of smell, and, it was rumoured, an acute detector of emotions. "The tunnel master is correct. You are too young." He spoke perfect Basic, as if he had been brought up in the best schools on Coruscant.

Anakin smiled and tried to shrug. The weight of the race wings made this gesture moot. "You will probably die down there," the Noghri added, eyes aloof. "Thanks for the support," Anakin said, his face coloring. He did not mind a professional opinion, such as that registered by the tunnel master, but he hated being ragged, and he especially hated an opponent trying to psych him out.

 _Fear, hatred, anger_ … The old trio Anakin fought every day of his life, though he revealed his deepest emotions to only one man: Obi-Wan Kenobi, his master in the Jedi Temple.

The Noghri stooped slightly on his three-jointed legs. "You smell like a slave," he said softly, for Anakin's ears alone.

It was all Anakin could do to keep from throwing off his wings and going for the Noghri 's long throat. He swallowed his emotions down into a private cold place and stored them with the other dark things left over from Tatooine. The Noghri was on target with his insult, which stiffened Anakin's anger and made it harder to control himself. Both he and his mother, Shmi, had been slaves to the supercilious junk dealer, Watto. When the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn had won him from Watto, they had had to leave Shmi behind… something Anakin thought about every day of his life.

"You four next!" the tunnel master hissed, breezing by with its midsection whirled out like ribbons on a child's spinner.

-.-.-

Mace Windu strode down a narrow side hall in the main dormitory of the Jedi Temple, lost in thought, his arms tucked into his long sleeves, and was nearly bowled over by a trim young Jedi who dashed from a doorway. Mace stepped aside deftly, just in time, but stuck out an elbow and deliberately clipped the younger Jedi, who spun about.

"Pardon me, Master," Obi-Wan Kenobi apologized, bowing quickly. "Clumsy of me."

"No harm," Mace Windu said. "Though you should have known I was here."

"Yes. The elbow. A correction. I'm appreciative." Obi-Wan was, in fact, embarrassed, but there was no time to explain things.

"In a hurry?"

"A great hurry," Obi-Wan said.

"The chosen one is not in his quarters?" Mace's tone carried both respect and irony, a combination at which he was particularly adept.

"I know where he's gone, Master Windu. I found his tools, his workbench."

"Not just building droids we don't need?"

"No, Master," Obi-Wan said.

"About the boy—" Mace Windu began.

"Master, when there is time."

"Of course," Mace said. "Find him. Then we shall speak… and I want him there to listen." "Of course, Master!" Obi-Wan did not disguise his haste. Few could hide concern or intent from Mace Windu.

Mace smiled. "He will bring you wisdom!" he called out as ObiWan ran down the hall toward the turbolift and the Temple's sky transport exit.

Obi-Wan was not in the least irritated by the jibe. He quite agreed. Wisdom, or insanity. It was ridiculous for a Jedi to always be chasing after a troublesome Padawan. But Anakin was no ordinary Padawan. He had been bequeathed to Obi-Wan by Obi-Wan's own beloved Master, Qui-Gon Jinn.

Yoda had put the situation to Obi-Wan with some style a few months back, as they squatted over a glowing charcoal fire and cooked shoo bread and wurr in his small, low-ceilinged quarters. Yoda had been about to leave Coruscant on business that did not concern Obi-Wan. He had ended a long, contemplative silence by saying, "A very interesting problem you face, and so we all face, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Obi-Wan, ever the polite one, had tilted his head as if he were not acquainted with any particular problem.

"The chosen one Qui-Gon gave to us all, not proven, full of fear, and yours to save. And if you do not save him…"

Yoda had said nothing more to Obi-Wan about Anakin thereafter. His words echoed in Obi-Wan's thoughts as he took an express taxi to the outskirts of the Senate District. Travel time—mere minutes, with wrenching twists and turns through hundreds of slower, cheaper lanes and levels of traffic. Obi-Wan was concerned it would not be nearly fast enough.

It wasn't. Not quite.

-.-.-

The pit spread before Anakin as he stepped out on the apron below the tunnel. The three other contestants in this flight jostled for a view. The Noghri was particularly rough with Anakin, who had hoped to save all his energy for the flight.

" _Loca Kung_." Anakin cursed to himself. Luckily for him, the Noghri did not seem to understand Huttese as well as English.

The pit was two kilometers wide and three deep from the top of the last accelerator shield to the dark bottom. This old maintenance tunnel overlooked the second accelerator shield. Squinting up, Anakin saw the bottom of the first shield, a huge concave roof cut through with an orderly pattern of hundreds of holes, like an overturned colander in Shmi's kitchen on Tatooine. Each hole in this colander, however, was ten meters wide. Hundreds of shafts of sunlight dropped from the ports to pierce the gloom, acting like sundials to tell the time in the open world, high above the tunnel.

It was well past meridian.

And almost time to die.

Anakin watched the flickering jump light on the tunnel ceiling with focused concentration, lips tight, eyes wide, a little dew of sweat on his cheeks. The pit atmosphere smelled like a bad shop generator, thick with ozone and the burnt-rubber odor of gun discharge.

The tunnel master twirled up to the exit to encourage the next team.

"Glory and destiny!" the Naplousean enthused, and slapped Anakin across the brace between his wings.

Anakin stayed focused, trying to sense where the currents would be at this level, where the little vortices of lift and plunge would accumulate as they formed and rotated between the shields. Ozone would always be in highest concentration in the areas where the winds would be strongest and most dangerous, but carried the racers fastest.

However, today, his senses seemed to be strangely clouded, not responding. He frowned, annoyed. This had last happened a month ago. "I must be too tired," he thought. After all, he was still getting used to his training.

Anakin's fellow racers took their places in the tunnel's exit, jockeying for the best position on the apron. The Noghri gave Anakin a jab with his elbow. Anakin pushed it aside and kept his focus.

The Naplousean tunnel master lifted its ribbon-limb, the tip curling and uncurling in anticipation.

Anakin braced himself, but the Naplousean made a thick whickering noise—its way of cursing—and ordered the contestants to hold. A flying maintenance droid was making a sweep of this level. From where they waited, the droid appeared as a flyspeck, a tiny dot buzzing its way around the wide gray circumference of the pit, issuing little musical tones between the roar and swoosh of canisters. It then moved up, to clean the space between the tunnel and the cave.

Managers could be bribed, but droids could not. The race had to wait.

It was just then, that he felt something, a flash of emotions, a disturbance in the force. It was over so quickly that he thought he had imagined it, but he knew it was there.

He shifted forward, looking around. There seemed to be nothing. Maybe he was just detecting his own bottled-up frustration and anger, or maybe he was just too tired.

"Longer for you to live," the Noghri whispered.

-.-.-

Obi-Wan, against all his personal inclinations, had made it his duty to know the ins and outs of anything having to do with illegal racing, anywhere within a hundred kilometers of the Jedi Temple. Anakin Skywalker, his charge, his responsibility, was one of the best Padawans in the Temple—easily fulfilling the promise sensed by Qui-Gon Jinn—but as if to compensate for this promise, to bring a kind of balance to the boy's lopsided brace of abilities, Anakin had an equal brace of faults.

His quest for speed and victory was easily the most aggravating and dangerous. Qui-Gon Jinn had perhaps encouraged this in the boy by allowing him to race for his own freedom, three years before, on Tatooine.

But Qui-Gon Jinn could not justify his actions now.

There were two garbage pits inside Anakin's radius of potential mischief, and one was infamous for its competition pit dives. Obi-Wan searched for guidance from the Force. It was never too difficult to sense Anakin's presence. He chose the nearest pit and climbed a setof maintenance stairs to the upper citizen-observation walkway at the top.

Obi-Wan ran along the balustrade, empty at this hour of the day—the middle of the afternoon bureaucrat work period. He paid little attention to the roaring whine of the canisters as they soared through the air into space. Sonic booms rang out every few seconds, quite loud on the balustrade, but damped by sloping barriers before they reached the outlying buildings. He was looking for the right turbolift to take him to the lower levels, to the abandoned feed chambers and maintenance tunnels where the races would be staged.

He found it soon enough, reaching the ground floor.

The long curved corridor circumnavigating the pit was filled with old machinery, rusting and filthy hulks stored centuries ago by long-dead pit maintenance crews: old launch sleds, empty canisters big enough to stand up in, and the tarnished plasteel tracks that had once guided them down to the loading tunnels.

It was in this jumble that Obi-Wan found a thriving trade in race paraphernalia.

"Flight starting soon!" cried a little lump of a boy even younger than Anakin. The boy had obviously come from offworld, born on a high-gravity planet, strong, stout, fearless, and almost unbelievably grimy.

"Wagers here for the Greeter? Fifty-to-one max, go home rich!"

"I'm looking for a young human racer," Obi-Wan said, bending down before the boy. "Sandy brown hair cut short, slender, older than you."

"You bet on him?" the stout boy asked, face wrinkled in speculation

"I'll wager, but first I want to have a look at him," Obi-Wan said. He waved his hand slightly, like a magician. "To observe his racing points."

The stout boy watched the hand, but no scarf appeared. He smirked. "Come to the Greeter," the boy said. "He'll tell you what you want to know. Hurry! The race starts in seconds!"

Obi-Wan was sure he could sense Anakin somewhere near, on this level. And he could also sense that the boy was preparing for something strenuous, and that there was fear in him.

That was when Obi-Wan sensed it.

The disturbance in the force. With a shock, he recognized it as something he had only felt before twice in his life.

-.-.-

Anakin forced his body down, sensing that the race was about to start. Suddenly, he detected a tremor above him. Instinct, as well as a slight movement of the Noghri at the corner of his eye, made him spring forward.

Just in time, as part of the ceiling caved in, crushing the stunned Naplousean. On top, he heard blaster fire, and swearing even he was impressed at. He could feel a dark force presence. "Another Sith?" he marveled to himself.

"Impressive, child," the Noghri snarled, before throwing a punch at Anakin.

Anakin, hampered by the bulk of the wings, could not move fast enough to completely avoid the thrust. Luckily, he twisted just in time so the Noghri's fist slammed into his wings. The force of the impact made him stagger backwards, but the Noghri's fist did not seem to fare well hitting metal. The reptilian bastard grimaced slightly, and missed his second punch.

Anakin had a brief respite, but he knew he would not win in hand-to-hand combat with the Noghri, Jedi or not. And, that was not counting the unknown attacker upstairs.

He had no choice.

He kicked away from the tunnel, skidded down the sloping apron, and spread the race wings to their full width.

Without hesitating, the Noghri followed.

-.-.-

Obi-Wan burst through the entrance to the first floor, and saw bodies littering the ground.

He could feel Anakin through the gaping hole on the ground.

Unfortunately, he could feel someone else.

"Master Bulq," he exclaimed, looking at the Weequay Jedi Master with surprise.

Master Sora Bulq, however, shook his head darkly, and ignited his lightsaber. To his surprise and horror, Obi-Wan saw that it was red.

Master Sora Bulq, who had mastered every single form of lightsaber combat known to Jedi, had turned to the dark great trepidation, Obi-Wan ignited his lightsaber. He calmed himself, and readied for battle, despite the bad gut feeling he had.

-.-.-

Anakin's confusion and pain quickly re-formed into a clarity he had not experienced in many years—three years, to be precise, since his final Podrace on Tatooine, when he had last been so close to death.

I t took him almost three seconds to roll to a proper position, feet angled slightly down, wings folded by his side, head tilted back against the brace. Like diving into an immense pool. Then, slowly, the wings seemed to spread without his conscious volition. The motors coughed and sputtered to a sharp, well-tuned whine, like the skirling of two large insects. He felt the sensors twirling just beyond his fingertips, perceived the faint vibrating signal in the palms of both hands that a gradient field was available.

He looked up, searching for the gradient field. Instead, he saw the high lights of the ceiling, shining brightly. Gods, you could hardly see anything beyond pure white light up there.

In this time of desperation, that gave him an idea. But he had to work fast.

-.-.-

The Noghri emerged out of the tunnel, in pursuit of the boy. He could smell the boy, he was close, somewhere ahead, he expected.

He heard a noise up above, electricity crackling. He looked up for the source, and was temporarily blinded.

So he never saw the boy coming down from above the tunnel he had just exited from

The jet fire tore at his eyes, and he screamed in pain and agony, lashing out. With satisfaction, he felt one of the blows connect, and the boy cry out with pain. He lunged at the boy, grabbing him by the shirt, determined to kill him, the boy screamed and then a sharp pain lanced through his body and then he could feel no more.

Anakin swallowed his fear, picking up his droid part still crackling with electricity.

He had levitated the droid part above the Noghri, before surprising the hulk. Good thing he always bought several droid parts around to tinker with, if not... he shuddered.

But he was even more surprised at how he used the dark side, and to kill with it. He had just reached out for help and pulled with his frustration and was so easy, but he had done something perhaps irreparable. He shook his head, clearing his mind. "First, I have to get out," he told himself. He ran in the direction out of the tunnels, but not before he stopped right in his tracks, thinking that he detected something.

-.-.-

The left side of the tunnel wall in front of him morphed into a humanoid in a cloak, making Anakin jump backwards, partly out of instinct and partly out of fear.

"It seems that they were right to call you the chosen one. I doubt any other padawan would have detected my concealed force signature, even in such close proximity, neither would they be able to take out a fully-grown Noghri." the humanoid rasped.

"Who are you?" Anakin said defiantly, despite the churning feeling in his stomach.

"They call me Darth Tyranus," the humanoid chuckled, "at least, my master does, and he has sent me, as well as a few others to kill you. However, I see that you have taken care of all the rest nicely."

Anakin, not seeing anything funny at all, felt his blood run cold.

An oppressive silence seemed to hang in the air, besides the sounds of lightsabers clashing above. Dimly, Anakin was aware that the humanoid was studying him thoughtfully. Suddenly, he felt his bottled-up resentment over months, years threatening to spill out. With difficulty, he managed to control his emotions, but realized that he could not quite manage that.

"Let me out of here, Sith," he commanded quietly despite his raging mind, breaking the silence.

"You have a lot of it, don't you?" the Sith replied silently.

"What?"

"Anger, resentment, frustration. You ought to let it out." the Sith said indifferently.

Anakin spat at his feet.

However, the Sith did not seem to mind.

"That's what I'm talking about. Now boy, we Sith are what you need. The Jedi, they ask you to bury your emotions, and forget to love and forget to hate. And those fools, they will never teach you true power. They have no power, relying on the senate, content to let the galaxy slide into chaos. They are a bunch of spineless, corrupt..."

"STOP!" Anakin shouted suddenly.

The Sith walked closer, and as Anakin backed out into the light he could see it's mouth. The evil thing was now smiling.

"How touching..." it hissed. "I value bravery as well... but bravery can kill too."

Anakin paused. It was true, some of what the Sith said, but it would mean turning into a monster. Like the monster that had killed Master Qui-Gon. In the blink of an eye, he made up his mind.

"NEVER!"

"A pity, then." the voice whispered, and he felt himself lifted up. Screaming, he let out everything he had, feeling the humanoid stumble backwards, releasing him and his hood fall back, revealing a long face with white hair and a trimmed white beard.

The last scene that he saw was the anger in Darth Tyranus's eyes.

It satisfied him.

-.-.-

Obi-Wan fell with a cry, at the same time aware that Anakin was again in great danger. Immediately he realized that it might have been a fatal mistake. He closed his eyes, expecting to feel no more any moment, but what he heard was the sound of scattering feet.

Ex Jedi Master Sora Bulq was running.

Obi-wan blinked in surprised relief, yet he found that he could barely stand his ground, as it was.

There was a clashing and a yell around the corner, followed by the swift pattering of feet.

Mace Windu and Yoda, leading a group of senior Jedi, burst into Obi-wan's vision. It was only then when Obi-wan, senses usually so attuned, felt their encompassing force presences. Even in a state of exhaustion over a gruelling fight, he couldn't help but chastise himself in losing out to the Jedi Traitor.

Mace opened his mouth to say something, looking concerned-

then all of them felt it, a wave of pain, agony, and frustration rolling across the force.

Yoda frowned.

Windu looked intrigued.

Obi-wan saw black.

* * *

 **A/N: The story diverges from Author Greg Bear's "Rogue planet" tale in the expanded universe. In the original story, Anakin wins the race, and the assassins and fallen jedi don't exist. Original book itself is a great read, definitely recommend it.**

 **To repeat my disclaimer, in no way do I own Star Wars. This is just an avenue for me to vent, and show my "creativity".**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Credit to Elfpen, and my usual support team.**

 **Seconds after Anakin's death**

The Jedi Temple, much like the city planet it called home, was deceptive in its appearance. Coruscant was a radiant hub of power on the surface, bustling and endless. But beneath the shining veneer of durasteel, technology, and endless lights, there were thousands upon thousands of layers of civilization, places which saw little sunlight and remembered times long forgotten by those above. The Coruscant underworld was a thing of legend, and of nightmares. Few ventured there, and even fewer returned. A certain dead young boy could testify to that.

The surface dwellers had places to go, business to attend to, lives to run. None spared a thought for the millennia rotting beneath their feet. There would always be places of Coruscant that only a few people knew about or remembered. There would always be vast swaths of existence worn into secrecy by the slow and merciless vote of time.

The Jedi Temple was a parallel to its host planet in this respect. Only, without so much death and nightmares. Perhaps the comparison was a poor one, thought Aayla Secura as she pushed her custodian's cart along the vast, abandoned hall, levitating a small globe lamp to light the way. It was true that the Temple had hundreds of forgotten levels such as this one, most of which now lay in disrepair below the surface, but they were not hostile as the wilds of Coruscant's underbelly. No, the Jedi Temple, even in its darkest, neglected depths, was a harbour of safety and tranquillity.

It was beautiful down here, in its own way. Dark, yes, and cold in places. Devoid of life and furniture alike. But the Force was thick here, so thick she could taste it. Its flavour was rich and delicately seasoned, generations of Jedi wisdom pressing up against her like a smouldering hearthfire, the embers of light that kept the surface dwellers alive far above. It was a shame that they only used these levels for utilities, now. Electric generators, antigravity backup systems, repulsor regulators, and maintenance units were just some of the commodities that found a home here down below. Ever since her master had went out on another mission relating to the criminal underworld, it had been Aayla's duty to care for them, until the Jedi Knight in charge of the duty came back from her mission. It was a lonely, tedious job. But with the Force so strong here, she savoured the atmosphere like fine wine.

In such a vast and ancient underworld, Tala's exiled clan of technology lived in disparate pockets, webbed together by halls of old statues and monuments, sacred rooms of meditation and forgotten rituals. Tala had even seen books down here, on some occasions actual paper books. They were remnants of the archives' oldest collections, which Jocasta Nu allowed to remain down here in their ancestral homes, and no wonder. There was no one to disturb their fragility here in the dark. No one but the generators and regulators - and Aayla, of course.

However, by the will of the Force, her solitude was not to last. At thirteen hundred hours on the second day of the tenth month of the year 3623 after the treaty of Coruscant, the Force slammed through the foundations of the Temple and sent Tala to her knees.

She would learn later of the mass chaos that erupted above as thousands of Jedi sensed the upheaval. Students froze in their katas, Healers stopped their work, even the High Council faltered in their daily sessions. But after a few breathless heartbeats, the fissure in the Force closed up as quickly as it arrived, leaving Jedi everywhere to clutch at their focus and wonder, what in the galaxy was that?

 **Half a planet away**

The reddish-brown Devanorian bounty hunter turned around with a start. For a moment, he thought that he had felt something strange, prickling on the edge of his consciousness. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that it had been horrible.

He could always feel things like this around him. Always had. He was extremely attuned to his surroundings, more so than normal Devanorians, which made him good at his job.

He narrowed his eyes. A bad feeling probably meant something bad was about to fail him. His intuition had never failed him. The question was _what?_

He scanned around his surroundings cautiously, spotting the Ubese growling suspiciously at all that passed by him, the old human leaning heavily on her walking stick, the tanned, dark Kiffar lounging at one side, eyeing him with undisguised malice.

But he did not feel any sense of danger when he looked at them.

 _Strange._ He shrugged. He had to be wrong for once, but better safe than sorry.

He turned, and continued walking to his contact's apartment, the weird incident already nearly forgotten.

 **Galaxies away**

The thing at the bottom of the pit stirred. He had felt something so faint he doubted that it was there. But it had to be. The familiar emotions, hate, anger, pain, loss, failure… For a moment, he … it had complete clarity _. I must get revenge on Kenobi._ It thought.

Kenobi.

KENOBI.

KENOBI. KENOBI. KENOBI. KENOBI. KENOOOOOOOBIIIII

And that moment was gone.

Back to coruscant

Chancellor Palpatine was expecting it, looking out for it. So when it happened, he knew he had been correct. And he knew what his apprentice would do.

If they switched places, he would have did it himself. That made both of them predictable, but often in favour of himself.

"Chancellor?" his assistant's thin, reedy voice screeched out.

"I'm coming soon."

 **An hour after Anakin's death**

Darth Tyranus, knew that they knew him for what he was. No doubt at least Yoda and Windu among the fools of the council, perhaps even Ki-Adi-Mundi had detected him. He had concealed his presence well, of course, by the torrent of emotions Skywalker had released had shocked him.

Though the midi-chlorians were practically swirling around the boy, but he had not expected such a young child to exhibit powers about that of the average Jedi Master, albeit for only a second before he was silenced.

The boy needed work on his reflexes, but in time, he could have become powerful. Fifteen years of harsh Sith training and he could have rivalled Dooku himself in raw power. A shame, Dooku shook his head, as he walked past a Jedi Knight staring suspiciously at him.

It seemed that the fools had really vamped up security. Still, there was no way they were going to catch him unless one of those from the council was standing really close to him.

The Jedi Knight walked right pass Dooku, in the guise of a tall blue-skinned Twi'lek, to stop a bearded man in his tracks. Dooku snorted. The man had a _grey_ beard, and while he matched Dooku's actual height, he was in no way a force sensitive.

 _Unless,_ he thought, _unless they knew that he could hide his force signature._ Only skilled knights and Jedi masters learned about the mere _existence_ of that tactic. But he was careless. Yoda was his master, after all. He, of all people, would know. Even if they knew, there would be no way to guess. There were simply too many people on Coruscant for the Jedi to check one by one. And surely, they would think that he would be a lone man with nothing on him, no matter what his disguise would be.

He looked at the sack draped on his back. It aided in his disguise as a manual labourer, but there was a much more important part. Like how they cloned the clone troopers, perhaps he would soon have many of the "chosen ones" at his personal service. The challenging part would be to bend all of them to his will, but he had never liked things to be too easy.

 **3 weeks after Anakin's death…**

Darth Tyranus looked at the boy, admiring his prize. Dead, but his DNA could certainly be re-used. Who knew what effects it would have? He allowed himself a rare smile. His master's plan had most certainly backfired on him.

The doors of his apartment flew open, pushed aside by the force. His master strode in, hooded, as always.

"Very well, I knew that you would do it, apprentice." His master said, with a trace of mirth in his voice.

"However, it is not the time now, is it?" Darth Sidious whispered silkily, to Darth Tyranus's discomfort. He knew that he was not yet strong enough to challenge the Sith, not with his comparable lack of knowledge of the dark side.

"You are dismissed." Darth Sidious said offhandedly, continuing to glance at Anakin's body a calculatingly. However, Darth Tyranus was not to be tricked.

He turned his back, and braced himself for pain to come.

As always, it was _almost_ unbearable.

"Be warned," the high, cold voice behind him rang out, "I am a better Sith then you'll ever be."

Count Dooku stood up in humiliation. Not since when he was a padawan under Yoda had he had this mix of emotions. It was most belittling of a man perfectly of being a Jedi Master, and in a few more decades, perhaps even Grandmaster. But he had to bide his time.

Swallowing the bile in his throat, and keeping his tone neutral like Sidious would expect him to, he said "Yes, Master."

 **A year after Anakin's death**

 **A note: Darth Sidious labelled the Juyo Form as the "Sith style", due to its intense focus on physical combat. Darth Maul used the form to great effectiveness because of his connection with the dark side.**

Mace Windu watched Obi-wan Kenobi silently, watching as the younger Jedi's lightsabre flashed left and right, fluid and confident. Mace couldn't help but nod to himself.

The Jedi Knight's lightsabre skills, already decent previously, had attained an even higher level in the last year. He could now best some of the other Jedi Masters with decades more experience and practice, though he indeed had youth and vitality on his side.

Still, it was a remarkable improvement. Even he himself had not improved so much in the space of a year, especially when he was young and inexperienced.

Maybe soon Obi Wan might surpass him, Mace thought wryly.

Though, from another point of view, it might not have been that big a surprise. Ever since Anakin's death, Obi-Wan had barely spoken a single word to most of the Jedi in the temple. Even when he was sent on missions he had been mostly silent, but extremely effective. Sometimes, Mace wondered to himself, what had happened to that hot-headed young Jedi Knight that had been reckless, but charming in his own way. Why had this silent yet competent young man taken his place?

Though he knew he had no right to control Obi-wan's behavior, he still missed the careless but brave young knight.

Mace regretted Anakin's death. Of course, the death of the force's chosen one had a negative impact on the force as a whole, but on an entirely personal level. As Master Saesee Tinn had once said, the boy had made the temple a more interesting place to live in, and that was in his opinion, a gross understatement.

But above and beyond that, he was still most concerned about Kenobi himself. He and Qui-Gon had been friends, brothers even. He had respected the other, younger Jedi's strength in the force, skill with a lightsabre, and most importantly, his straightforward, caring personality, which Obi-Wan had to have appreciated the most, in what seemed to be like a lifetime ago.

Seeing Obi-Wan in this state, reduced to no more than a machine-like shell, made him worried and slightly guilty, though it was not like he would make it show. Which was another reason why he felt duty-bound to do what Obi-Wan wanted. Perhaps he would get to better know the younger Jedi through this. And there was almost no risk. Even now, Obi-wan was still like a beacon of shining light in the force, not any dimmer. He was still fiercely loyal to his friends and the Jedi order, though he had distanced himself from all the senior Jedi.

But yet... what if granting Obi-wan his request aggravated the situation further instead? He could not take the risk, especially considering Obi-wan had already lost two of the closest people to him. This made him extremely vulnerable indeed...

"Obi-Wan," he called, and the young knight ended his display with a sweeping strike. The young knight nodded, panting heavily. Mace said nothing, but he shook his head inwardly. Against appearances, the young knight did not have complete control of himself.

"I'm sorry, but I will not teach you Juyo nor permit anyone to. I don't think it is suitable, especially after what happened to master Bulq, who was more skilled in the various forms of the saber. "

Obi-Wan's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, "But Master Windu, I have been strong in the force, and I have mastered the Makashi form, along with Ataru and Soresu, and I…" Windu held up a hand, and Obi-Wan broke off. "Though you have indeed improved in Ataru and Soresu, you have not mastered them nearly as well as Makashi, especially considering the time you have spent in the latter. I think Makashi's offense and Soresu's defense are enough to handle both Jedi and long-ranged opponents." Obi-Wan started, but Mace stared coldly at him and the Knight wisely shut his mouth.

"Practice Makashi, you have, and practiced it well. Master Juyo, you shall not. Few have studied, one has fallen. Only one student, to mastery has risen." A familiar voice croaked out.

"Master Yoda!" Obi-wan exclaimed in surprise, turning around to see the open door to the room they had been practicing in. However, Mace did not seem to be surprised

"No." Mace shook his head firmly. "I understand that you are angry about Anakin's death. I know that you are angry because if you had greater skill with a lightsabre he might not have died. I know that you think that you need to get better, and that you want the Sith to pay, but that is," Mace paused "against the principle of the Jedi."

Obi-Wan's face crumpled, and Windu felt slightly guilty, but he did not let it show. He did not want Obi-Wan to risk falling to the dark side, not like Bulq, not like Dooku. But it only lasted for an instant, before the young knight composed himself again.

"I am sorry, Masters." he bowed. "I have regrettably let my emotions get the better of me," Obi wan intoned in a flat voice before sweeping up his lightsaber and striding off.

However, it seemed that Yoda was not going to let the matters rest. In the blink of an eye, the wizened Jedi Master had hurried to block Obi-wan's path, narrowing his eyes at the young Jedi. To Mace, Obi-wan looked very unnerved. Some things would never change.

And Yoda spoke, "Easy, it is, Obi-Wan, to make the wrong decisions, to take the wrong path. Alone, he is not. With others, it is. Guidance, is the key to prevent the fall. "

Obi-wan blinked and for a moment, Mace thought that he saw a hint of deep sorrow in his eyes. He was further convinced that he had made the correct choice. Juyo users did become exceptional swordsmen, but even the masters of the Form (including himself) acknowledged the possibility of emotion getting the best of them, leading to their fall to the dark side. It took a master of not only the form, but their own emotions, that could truly master Juyo. And from what he saw, though he tried to pretend else-wise, Obi-wan was far from ready.

"I understand, Master Yoda." Obi-wan nodded.

There was a long pause, where Obi-wan met Yoda eye to eye, to Mace's surprise.

At last, Yoda sighed "May the Force be with you."

"May the Force be with you, Master" Obi-wan murmured. Almost droid-like, he gave a stiff bow and walked off.

* * *

In his living quarters, Obi-wan collapsed on his chair. He allowed himself the luxury of burying his head in his hands for several long moments, breathing, trying to gain control of the large gaping pit that had opened up in his chest, until he felt like facing the world and it's responsibilities again.

 **A/N: Please leave reviews.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Years later, in a vastly different galaxy, a long long time ago, far far away...**

Hutt Space. Nar Shaddaa. Business Sector. Bounty Hunters' Guild Headquarters.

"Of course, Sir," The glossy, red protocol droid answered Risk eagerly, "If you would be so kind as to swipe your Guild card for me." It gestured stiffly toward the desk's sole prominent feature. As the Guild receptionist, the droid had no need of flimsies or a personal terminal. It also could easily be repaired in the event of a visit from an unsatisfied client. The multitude of scratches on his plating suggested that such visits might have been a regular occurrence.

Risk slid his counterfeit card through the reader, disguising her uncertainty with boredom. Bina had made the credentials' weakness abundantly clear: Risk could pose as Jensi Sallaros indefinitely—until the real Sallaros swiped his real card at any Guild office or Security Post.

Sallaros hadn't used the card in three months, checked in rarely and seemed to only hunt bounties when it suited her. It was the best Bina could do.

A tiny light on the card reader flickered white as data bounced along network links. After a few agonizing seconds, it glowed a steady green. "Mr Sallaros, Guildmaster Cradossk is waiting for you in his office. Please, use one of our complimentary weapons lockers and we will be on our way."

Risk waved off the droid-receptionist, "I don't need a complimentary locker today. Thanks." The combination of his unreliable credentials and the lucrative bounty he wore around his neck made giving up his weapons less than unappealing.

Though it was not as if he would be defenseless without them; Risk inwardly smiled as he let his thoughts drift to a better time.

The droid shuffled around his anachronistic desk and addressed him again, his golden eyes glowing. "Sir, the weapons lockers are both complimentary and mandatory." He raised his arms at the elbow, as if expecting to shake both his hands at once. Instead, the droid's forearms split along a hidden seam and revealed a pair of nasty built-in blaster rifles.

Risk lifted his hands in surrender and stepped over to the lockers, "I see your point."

"Do not forget your key. I assure you that your weapons will not be disturbed until three months after your demise—should you choose to leave them with us." He recited the Guild's policy as if it were a cheerful marketing screed.

Risk wondered if the Guild's doorway weapon scanners could detect his lightsabre as he stole a glance over his shoulder at the droid. It-he hooked his elbow into the drape of his cloak and used it to cover the locker as he obediently placed nearly his entire private arsenal inside.

The receptionist's weaponry retracted amicably and he led him into the remarkably professional central Guild office. Risk would probably have been more interested in the unexpected corporate decor if he hadn't been preoccupied by the uncomfortable lightness of being unarmed.

He was able to notice a sudden inconsistency, "I thought I was meeting with the Council."

"Mr Sallaros, Guildmaster Cradossk is waiting for you in his office," the droid repeated. He showed her to a large set of black double doors and bowed graciously before he shuffled off to resume his duties.

Risk glared at his oblivious, shiny red silhoutte and mentally discharged a bit of lingering resentment over her absent weaponry. The emotion was misplaced, and he didn't care.

The doors parted to reveal a bright office caught in the height of a colorful Nar Shaddaa sunset. Risk's eyes were dazzled by the light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and he was forced to pause in the doorway to adjust to the scene.

"Enter," said the office's sole occupant, in the Trandoshan tongue. Risk could follow the language well enough to understand the invitation. Fortunately, anyone as business-minded as Cradossk would comprehend Basic even if his anatomy wasn't well-disposed to speaking it.

He squinted at the reptilian silhouette, "Guildmaster, forgive me but I expected to meet with the Council."

"Instead, you meet with me. Perhaps you are disappointed, Risk," he hissed. His fake name stood out among the grunts and hisses of Dosk. She could see well enough to catch the light glistening from an antique dagger in Cradossk's hands. He was engrossed in the task of cleaning what he guessed was a prized family heirloom. A grim thought had him wondering how many beings it had slain over the generations.

"I've yet to decide. But I am grateful that I don't have to keep up the charade," he lied. His stolen credentials had been one of her few comforts.

"We allow for poachers. Do you know why?" Cradossk stood up and began slowly stalking towards Risk. He didn't bother to sheathe the knife.

"They make real bounty hunters look good and they take the jobs you don't want." He replied, head held high in defiance.

"Very good. The Council wants me to gut you from here," he pointed the knife at his stomach, from a couple of meters away, "to here." He brought the blade up to point at his neck. "Do you know why?"

 _As if you could_

Risk squared his shoulders and answered as dispassionately as he could. Such a vicious threat was transparent, familiar, and easy enough to manage. It also did not frighten him. "Because I'm better than a poacher."

Cradossk narrowed his orange eyes and blinked. His eyelids closed lazily, like a sleepy crocodilian napping as it waits for its prey. He spat out a laugh and sheathed his dagger. "You must be. But you are wrong, that is not why they want you dead."

Risk did not relax. Though he had worked with bounty hunters for a long time, experience made him extra careful. Then again, he had to wonder if she'd understood that sudden phrase in Dosh; he spoke so rarely to Trandoshans. "Then what's the problem?"

He closed the gap between them with a single, long step. He sniffed the air around him, mouth slightly agape. "You ruin our reputation. You let bounties go. You killed three licensed hunters." He added after a moment, "The wookie survived."

He studied Cradossk for a long moment, "Why don't you want to kill me?"

"The Scorekeeper teaches many things. She says we must not waste. Gutting you is a waste of a good hunter." He circled him once and made his way back to a chair behind a simple, curved desk. Sharp claws on his bare, clawed feet clicked on the hard flooring. "The ones you killed were not good hunters."

Rope nets hung from the ceiling, full of desiccated trophies. Ancient weapons covered the walls, most of which had been restored to their former, gleaming glory. A few camouflage and flight suits stood near the door, immaculate and ready for use. He gestured for Risk to take a seat opposite his desk. He obliged and gave his hunters' regalia a few appreciative nods as she sat.

"So we can forget this bounty and you'll let me join the Guild."

"You could have joined the Guild any time—before you made us angry."

"Then, I don't understand..."

"You killed three licensed hunters on Nal Koska. You let the prey go free. That is unacceptable. You will make amends."

Risk leaned forward in his seat, "And how am I supposed to do that?"

"You are not sworn to the Creed. You cannot break an oath you have not sworn."

"...go on?"

Cradossk slid a picture, printed on flimsy, across his desk. In the photo, a well-groomed man with a tidy goatee was frozen in the act of adjusting an expensive crimson jacket. "Fore Prion has broken the Creed many times. But the Council does not believe that he could disappoint them. They like him. He has hurt acquisitions that should have been protected. He always cuts on them. Every body is missing pieces. The Gamorreans are unrecognizable. The last one was missing half his ribcage." Cradossk shook his head, "Unnecessary."

Risk kept a straight face, but he winced inside.

"He is an oily man. His smile covers up the truth and our Council believes that the damage is just part of his work. It is a great dishonor to the Guild."

There was a stony silence, before Risk opened his mouth.

"Why should I accept? I kill for different reasons."

Cradossk didn't seem put-off at the least. Instead, he dug out a pristine clear folder. It contained a single file.

Prion was on the cover, dragging along a familiar figure. A figure that he had not seen in many long years, cut all over with blood drying fast, lifelessly staring ahead, surrounded by three or four corpses.

Risk felt his eye twitching, and he was sure the damned Trandoshan had not missed it.

He let out a sigh.

Cradossk smiled with rows of conical teeth.

Risk collected the rest of the necessary information from Cradossk, all of it covered in caveats and oaths to secrecy.

He left the Bounty Hunters' Guild headquarters steeled for his first Guild-sanctioned hunt.

* * *

 _"L'Orexis Group in Chandrila is an MWC that has many brands offering a variety of positions for job seekers including counter managers, beauty advisors, managerial positions..."_

Risk paused the hologram, going back to the menu. Keying in "Prion" in the search function, he was disappointed, but not surprised that he could not find anything. He dug out the file given to him by the guild, ready for some closer scrutiny, when the doors to his room opened with a whoosh.

Risk didn't look up. Years of practice had honed his mental capabilities in such a way that though not strengthened by much, they were fine as thread, not to mention the force signature was extremely familiar.

"Master"

The fair blond girl gave a short bow, but Risk ignored her. There was an awkward silence, before Risk turned to her,

"Didn't I tell you not to call me that? I am not of the order any more."

"But you are strong in the force...even the instructors weren't as strong as you."

The girl looked at him defiantly.

Risk shook his head.

"I'm sure they were each strong in their own right," he said calmly, continuing to study the file for clues about what name Prion might have registered himself under.

"That's not the point," the girl sighed, exasperated.

Risk ignored her, pressing "play" on the hologram

 _"As part of it's grassroots eforrts, L'Orexis has been spearheading programmes and initiatives to foster interactions and friendships between Chandrilans of different species and ethnic groups. An example is CampTeen, a youth harmony program dedicated to promoting harmony and bring youths from all species and races together. This Camp is headed by Leslan Barring..."_

Risk stopped the hologram, checking the file again. "Leslan Barring" matched Foe Prion perfectly, from their arrogant expression to the nondescript scar on the left cheek. The only difference was their hair, which could be easily altered.

"Sir Risk," the girl finally opened her mouth, looking straight at him. "When are you going to start training me?" she was trying to act tough, but it just came off as scared.

Risk couldn't help but feel pity for the girl he had rescued six months ago. A member of an extinct race, never able to blend in with the rest, given a taste of the exoticity and the power of the force but unable to use it out of fear. He lapsed into his own thoughts.

"Are you sure?" he broke the silence.

"I've decided," the girl said, "I want to learn what I deserve, even if I'm going to get killed because of it."

Risk nodded. He didn't owe it to the girl, but he owed it to the Jedi that he had forsaken.

"Understand, Jeswi, that I am not a Jedi Master. Being strong in the force and being a Jedi are different." He began, watching with amusement, but also nostalgia as the girl-Jeswi eagerly nodded, victory and anticipation flashing in her brown eyes.

"All right, come here, and kneel in front of me. Yes, good, now open your mind and let me see..."

He was pleasantly surprised to find that she was already well versed in the basics. One of the more obedient initiates at the...Risk let the thought trail off, and focused on the lesson.

He reached out to guide her mind to the correct mindset, sweating a little with the difficulty. It would be much easier with a padawan bond, he briefly entertained the thought, before another, firmer part of his mind chastised himself for even going down that path.

He did not want to experience the same excruciating feeling of pain and loss again.

Entering meditation with his temporary protege, Risk reflected upon all there was, his mind years away.

 _Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Chaos, yet harmony._

* * *

 **A/N: So even without Vader Order 66 is still carried out, but with different protagonists/antagonists. Basically the emperor still uses Dooku as his main vessel, but has his "Empire's hands" basically including some other fallen Jedi/sith. Mostly canon.**

 **Luminous Being: Yes the story begins from Rogue planet before the timeline diverges: I also changed the location to coruscant in order to fit in the "Jedi rushing in" scene. Shall mention this more clearly.**


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